


limerence

by passion_dies



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Gore, M/M, Swordfighting, star wars but in minecraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29226435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passion_dies/pseuds/passion_dies
Summary: Dream, a young and overconfident Mandalorian, is desperate to build up his reputation.His opportunity appears in the form of a charismatic and mysterious Jedi.star wars / minecraft au
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	limerence

**Author's Note:**

> tw for some gore! not too much blood and not too graphic but lots of fighting/violence in this chapter (and probably the entire fic)

_Strength is life, for the strong have the right to rule._

* * *

  
  


Two gloved hands clench tightly around the wooden hilt of his weapon of choice. His trusty axe has seen him through bigger fights than this. The blade is wide, heavy, and freshly polished, glistening a deep onyx in the sunlight. 

The ravager stands less than ten feet in front of him. Its beady, emerald eyes radiate pure hatred, burning straight through the visor of Dream’s midnight-black helmet. One of its horns is broken in half, sporting a dull and jagged edge. The other is intact, sharp and menacing, with only the faintest traces of wear. A fresh cut runs in a twisting crimson path from the top of its snout across its cheek and all the way down to the corner of its lips, which are parted in a snarl to show off yellow, crooked fangs. 

A grumbling roar of anger shakes the ground beneath them. It’s a warning, one final chance for him to turn back and try to outrun it.

He waits, unwavering.

The great creature lowers its head.

His hold on the axe tightens.

It paws at the ground, kicking up bright clumps of grass.

He readjusts his stance, keeping his knees bent.

In one fluid motion, it lunges forward, extending its terrible neck like a coiled spring.

He leaps out of its path, sidestepping the attack with practiced ease. The axe bears down on the exposed skin of the creature’s throat, digging into the tough hide and slicing through flesh until it collides with bone. The ravager shrieks, bucking up on its hind legs, and the blade is sunk so deep into it that he’s forced to release his hold to avoid being thrown up into the air with it. 

Instead, he pulls a handful of small, round bottles from the strap around his waist. There’s only five left, and his funds are low, so he must use them sparingly. All but two are tucked back into place. In quick succession, he launches the potions at the beast’s head. The glass breaks and leaks dark purple liquid onto its face, eliciting another pained growl. This time, it takes a few stumbling steps backward, writhing its head back and forth in agony. It leaves a trail of blood behind it, staining the fresh blades of grass a deep crimson.

A cheer erupts behind him. He turns around, surprised, and spots a few children from the village watching in the distance. 

It isn’t often that he has an audience anymore. 

He’s missed it.

It’s clear that the fight will soon be over. The ravager has lost too much blood from the deep wound on such a vulnerable, vital part of the body. The poison has blinded it, rendering it weak and unable to fight back. It can hardly stand, wobbling back and forth as it attempts to stay conscious. At this point, he could leave it to bleed out, letting it die an unnecessarily painful death that could stretch on for minutes.

He tells himself that the grandeur he displays now is for those watching. 

He knows that it’s an excuse.

With one click of a button, the netherite plate on his back splits open, and a pair of silver wings emerges, unfolding gracefully. The cheers grow loud again, paired with excited chattering. Elytra are rare, even among Mandalorians.

Another button shoots him up into the air, leaving a trail of white-hot sparks behind him. He goes higher, and higher, and higher, until the giant monster looks like a tiny gray blotch in an expanse of soft green below him.

For a moment, the rush of adrenaline he craves truly hits him. It isn’t buried underneath the danger anymore. It’s boosted by the thrill of imminent victory and the excitement of viewing the world from the height of the clouds. Up here, he’s alone. His only company is the wind, wild and carefree, gently guiding him along with it in its path to nowhere. 

His fingers curl around the hilt of his sword and pull it from its sheath. It’s made from the same material, but lighter than the axe; it’s less aggressive, more precise, and perfect for the task at hand. He expertly shifts his body weight to twist the direction of the wings into a downward spiral around his prey. As he descends, the circle shrinks and he speeds up, his weapon aimed at the ready. When he’s lined up his target, he dives straight down, blade outstretched in front of him and prepared for impact.

There’s a sickening squelch as it plunges straight through the ravager’s back and between its ribs, digging all the way to the hilt. From the outside, it’s impossible to tell what he’s hit, but he knows that at least one vital organ was pierced. His feet land gracefully beside his weapon, rendering him right-side up again, and the wings fold back up behind him to prevent any damage.

His foe shudders beneath him, collapsing into an exhausted heap. It takes shallow, gasping breaths that make its entire body shake, rocking him up and down with it.

In moments like this, there’s a certain tenderness required. Life is precious and delicate, even for the strongest in this world. It’s something he’s taken many, many times, and each life he claims demands an appreciation in its final moments.

He kneels atop the ravager’s shoulder blade and removes one of his gloves so he can press his bare palm against its warm, leathery skin. Its inhales are shorter and erratic now. 

“Rest,” he murmurs as it finally shuts its eyes, “and know you fought well.”

It heaves out one final exhale and grows still. He can almost feel the loss of energy under his hand as the spark in it goes out, leaving nothing behind but a hollow shell. 

Dream feels hollow for a moment, too. 

It doesn’t last. Triumph fills the void in his chest with a pleasant warmth that grows hotter when he spots the celebrations of his spectators. Their village will be tormented by the beast no more. He’s done something _good,_ something _helpful._

And yet, as he tugs his sword free from his slain enemy, the only thing on his mind is how much _more_ he craves. 

* * *

The Ravager’s damaged horn, still covered in half-dried blood, clatters upon the wooden table of the saloon with a heavy _thunk._

“Well, that was quick.” His employer leans forward in his seat, admiring the battleworn ivory. Ravager horns are desirable as decoration. “If you let me keep this, I’ll pay you extra.”

“I don’t want extra, Phil.”

“What do you want for it, then?”

For a moment, a spark of hope ignites in his heart. This could be the opportunity he’s been searching for.

“A chance.”

“Oh, not this again.”

“I’m nineteen! I’ve been doing these stupid tasks for you for _years_ now!” 

Dream shouldn’t let his anger show, and certainly not towards the man who’s paying him, but he can’t help it. He knows he’s capable of more than this. He’s known that for a long time.

“How am I supposed to prove myself to you if you won’t even let me try?”

“Look, buddy, you’ll have plenty of time to get yourself into dangerous situations when you’re older. You’re good, don’t get me wrong, but I have better, more experienced people coming to me for jobs.” 

There’s no hint of flexibility in his face. It’s clear that his mind has been made up, and when Phil makes up his mind about something, there’s nothing in the world that could make him budge. 

“For now, take a break, yeah? Visit home, spend your money, and come back to me when you’re ready to help out another village.”

Wordlessly, he grabs the sack of emeralds off the table, releasing some of his anger in the deathgrip he has on it. The only response to Phil’s cheerful call of farewell is the slamming of the saloon door.

By nightfall, he’s ventured into a quiet birch forest. Moonlight bathes the pale branches in a thin film of silver, casting long shadows over the darkened grass. With the exception of a few horrifically large spiders, the woods are lifeless, completely abandoned by even the most common woodland animals.

As he searches for a place to settle down for the night, he stumbles upon a patch of freshly-trampled weeds. There’s a small path through the underbrush.

Dream has nothing better to do, so he follows it, ducking between bushes and branches until he reaches a small campsite.

A tent is pitched neatly amidst the trees, pinned up between two wide trunks. The flap on the front is pulled open, revealing a small stash of food and a stack of books spread out on the tarp flooring inside. Some logs sit in a pile nearby, gathered for a fire that’s yet to be lit. 

Curiosity gets the better of him. He spares one more look at his surroundings to ensure he’s alone, and when he sees nothing, he cautiously approaches the tent. The books shimmer with a violet, otherworldly glow. One of them is propped open, showing off crisp white pages that are filled from edge to edge with foreign runes. To get a better look, he steps inside the tent and crouches down, observing it carefully. Even the pages give off light. He grabs the nearest one and thumbs through it, pausing on a meticulously drawn map of an elaborate castle. 

“Can I help you?”

Alarmed, Dream whips around, locking a hand tightly around the hilt of his sword. 

A man stands a few feet outside the tent. There’s a bundle of sticks gathered underneath one of his arms. _Kindling,_ he realizes, cursing himself for his carelessness. _Of course he’d be nearby. He just needed kindling._

He’s young, Dream notes, eyeing his potential opponent carefully. Couldn’t be much older than himself. His auburn hair is cropped short, but his bangs are long enough to flutter gently in the direction of the wind. Wide, brown eyes stare at him with a strange intensity. It’s not steely, or harsh, or uncomfortable. It’s genuine, seeking to understand for the sake of understanding. 

The chestplate strapped around his middle is unlike anything he’s ever seen before. It’s as clear as if it were made of the purest ice, the kind that covers lakes in a thin, transparent film after the first freezing nights of winter. There’s a strange violet glow to it, flowing in shimmering waves that mesmerize his eyes. It’s the same light that the books inside the tent give off.

All throughout his childhood, he’d been told legends of the powerful enchanters that had battled against his ancestors. Their magic could enhance their weapons, but it was also used in combat, giving them the supernatural ability to anticipate their opponents’ moves and control the world around them with their minds. 

He’d thought they’d been eradicated. 

If he was being honest, he’d thought they were entirely fiction.

“You’re a Jedi.”

There’s an equal amount of incredulity on the Jedi’s face, lighting it up with a warm grin. His pale cheeks crinkle with dimples and his eyes shine with a sparkle that’s entirely his own. Dream thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re a Mandalorian.”

Realization hits Dream straight in the sternum, a blunt force that causes his lungs to freeze still.

_This is it._

_This_ is his chance to prove himself.

If he can defeat a Jedi, then surely he’s qualified enough for mercenary work. 

Dream exits the tent and straightens to his full height, puffing out his chest with exaggerated confidence.

“I challenge you to a duel.”

The stranger shakes his head in disbelief. His bright smile grows impossibly wider.

“I’ve heard Mandalorians are blunt. I guess I didn’t expect them to be _this_ blunt.”

Still, he sets down his sticks in a neat pile as he continues,

“Alright, I’ll accept. I need the practice.”

_Practice._

The confidence doesn’t intimidate him. If anything, it gives him an extra rush of adrenaline. His desire to prove himself shifts to a deep need, something that makes his heart pound heavy with longing. 

The Jedi will regret underestimating him.

When he returns with that shimmering chestplate, so will Phil.

* * *

For the second time today, Dream stands at the ready with his heart pounding, staring down an enemy. 

Once again, his gloved fingers fall into the worn grooves on his axe’s handle. The blade is still stained with splotches of coppery blood. 

The Jedi unsheathes his own weapon. It’s elegant, thin, and dangerously sharp. A shimmering diamond, sporting the otherworldly glow of enchantment just like the chestplate.

This time, Dream makes the first move. He lunges forward, holding the axe high over his head to gain momentum as he sprints. The stranger waits patiently, sword held in a defensive position in front of him. 

Heavy footfalls beat rhythmically against the earth as the distance between them shrinks, like the drums that spur courage in the hearts of warriors during the heat of battle. With only a few feet diving them, Dream leaps into the air, preparing to swing his weapon down onto the Jedi with enough force to knock the sword from his hands.

In a flash, his opponent disappears to the left, ducking past the attack with ease. Sparks fly as the sword collides with his chestplate in a sweeping attack once he’s connected with the ground again, delivering a surprising amount of force that knocks him stumbling backwards. His armor remains intact, though, marred with only the faintest scratch in the olive paint. 

There’s no time to marvel at the stranger’s unexpected skill. As soon as he’s regained his footing, he retaliates, aiming a swipe directly at his face. Again, the Jedi easily dodges the attack, as if he’s anticipating the movement before it happens. No matter how quickly Dream hacks through the air with the heavy weapon, each move is detected and avoided with agile grace. 

Frustration bubbles up in his chest and leaks into his movement. He continues to slice forward, sacrificing precision for speed, and the Jedi continues to deftly dance around him as if this were a game. There’s even a hint of a smile on his annoyingly handsome face.

No matter how hard he tries, the axe simply isn’t fast enough to keep up. He’ll exhaust himself quickly if he doesn’t change his tactics.

With an angry cry of exertion, Dream hurls the axe forward. It spins through the air in a black and tan blur, and the Jedi narrowly ducks underneath it, perhaps grazing a few hairs off the top of his head. The smile disappears.

He rises to his feet again as Dream pulls his sword from his belt. Compared to the axe, it feels weightless. 

They spar again. This time, he twirls the blade through quick slices with ease, finally able to keep up with his foe. The Jedi parries instead of dodging, blocking each blow with the same level of anticipation. He even throws in a few swings of his own, which Dream narrowly avoids. 

There’s something inexplicable about the style in which his opponent fights. It’s like he flows through each step, smooth and fluid, using the sword as an extension of himself rather than a tool for battle. There’s no desperation on his face, no aching desire for the savory taste of victory. Instead, there’s pure exhilaration with each clash of metal and pride in the execution of a tricky move regardless of Dream’s response. It’s the style of an artist, not a warrior - a complicated dance he’s performing for beauty, not triumph.

Droplets of sweat form on Dream’s brow and trickle down the angles of his face. His hot breath stays trapped inside the helmet, reflecting warmth straight back into his cheeks. It’s been a while since he’s gotten this winded from a fight, and he’s grateful for the barrier between them that conceals some of his exhaustion from his enemy. The Jedi doesn’t relent, still as quick as ever, and he speeds up his pace to drain him of the remaining energy he has left.

One false move gives the stranger the opening he’d been waiting for. Dream hesitates, just for a second, to rethink his next move. His opponent grins, braces himself, and extends an open hand towards him.

There’s no time to react.

A heavy, invisible force barrels straight into his chest. It launches him backward, and he hits the ground hard, gasping for the air that’s been knocked out of him. His sword falls from his hand and clatters onto the grass with a dull thud. 

A wave of the Jedi’s hand pulls the fallen blade up into the air. It floats there for a moment, suspended a few feet above the ground, until he flicks his wrist and sends it whirling a dozen feet away into the underbrush. 

As he lies there, muscles aching and lungs heaving, he wonders if he’ll be afforded the same kindness he offers to his enemies in their final moments. The Jedi approaches him cautiously and stops at his side, pressing the tip of his blade to the thin fabric covering Dream’s neck.

He supposes it won’t matter. Up close, he can see the way the edge of the diamond glistens in the moonlight. It’ll be quick.

His eyes slide shut.

_Not a bad way to go._

He waits.

And waits.

And _waits_.

The pressure of the blade is lifted.

“That was fun.”

“... What?”

When he opens his eyes again, the Jedi’s signature smile has returned to his face. He’s tucked his sword back into its sheath and extends a hand down towards him, waiting to help him to his feet.

“It was fun. You’re the best sparring partner I’ve had in years.” His joy is genuine. “That armor -- and those weapons -- are incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever seen netherite in person.”

Bitter defeat leaves a lingering burn in the back of his throat. The last time he’d lost a battle was when he was fourteen. It was just as humiliating then as it is now.

It’s made worse by the mercy he’s been shown, and made worse still by the fact that the Jedi seems totally unaware that he’s shown any mercy at all. He’d never viewed it as a fight for his life. To him, it was _practice._

Maybe Phil was right.

Slowly, he reaches out and connects their hands together. Strong fingers curl around the back of his palm, providing him with a steady weight to hoist himself up with.

_No._

He’s better than this. He’s better than accepting defeat when he can still fight.

As soon as he’s on his feet again, he maintains his grip on the hand and yanks it forward. The Jedi stumbles, having to place a hand on Dream’s shoulder to keep from tumbling into him, and his face twists into a confused frown as Dream uses the opportunity to steal the weapon from his belt. He tosses it into the grass, still squeezing his hand like a vice.

“No weapons this time.”

The stranger grabs onto Dream’s wrist, trying to tug his other hand free. His voice is pitched higher with pain.

“Alright, no weapons. Just let go of me.”

He complies, giving his foe some time to flex his now-red fingers. His face lacks the joy it held during their first match when he finally raises his fists and gives Dream a nod of approval.

A new wave of adrenaline hits him, providing him the second wind he needs to press forward with a harsh barrage of punches and jabs. The Jedi still blocks and weaves around them, but it’s apparent he’s much less confident without the assistance of his blade. Not once does he attempt to land a hit of his own, too busy trying to avoid taking any damage.

Dream lands a hit on his jaw, earning him a harsh hiss of pain. The Jedi stumbles backward, and Dream presses on, welcoming the familiar rise of anxious excitement in his chest. His opponent’s blocks become weaker, his steps unsure.

Again, his fist connects with soft skin, this time hitting his cheek in a wicked hook that shakes his entire body. The Jedi tries to retaliate with a jab of his own, filled with the momentum of rage, and Dream uses the temporary lack of balance to kick his opponent’s legs out from underneath him. Deftly, he swoops down and presses a knee into the shorter man’s chest, trapping him underneath his body weight.

They both remain silent. Dream simmers in victory, watching the confused flash of emotions wash over the Jedi’s face. There’s shock, and anger, and pain, and then…

And then there’s a smile.

It’s small and lopsided, still as charming as ever. He’s accepted the defeat with ease. The smile drips of gratitude, thanking him for the dance without words.

It’s unbearable.

He sheds his gloves, tossing them carelessly to the side.

His hands curl around the pale expanse of the Jedi’s neck.

The face below him shifts into confusion again.

“Wha-”

The word is cut off in a strangled gasp as Dream’s hands tighten around his throat, cutting off his air. Those pretty, dark eyes widen with panic. Pink lips part, gasping for breath in a choked, silent plea. Nails dig into his wrists, clawing desperately at his exposed skin. 

Dream doesn’t budge.

He’s never strangled someone before. It’s more horrific than he’d expected it to be, to feel the desperation of a squirming body below him and to stare into a gaze of utter terror. He wants to look away, especially when his body stops writhing and the pumping pulsation underneath his palm starts to weaken, but he owes it to his victim to witness the last moments of his life.

It’s a privilege to watch something beautiful die, he tells himself. It’s an honor to _feel_ it, to know that he holds something so powerful between his fingers. The graceful magician, strong enough to move things with his mind, reduced to helpless agony underneath him. 

“Rest,” he whispers, voice trembling with reverence.

The Jedi’s red, watering eyes flutter shut.

A tear escapes the corner of Dream’s eye. Bile rises up in his throat.

Just before he feels the life fade from the body below him, it... Disappears, leaving behind a cloud of purple particles.

His empty hands grasp at the pieces of light. They vanish when they make contact with his skin.

Dream watches the rest of the particles disintegrate into the blades of grass. He’s too stunned to move.

_Clever._

He’d used an ender pearl.

It takes him thirty seconds to recover enough to search for him. He tears through the woods with a torch, whipping his head around at the smallest crunch of grass or the faintest rustling of leaves. No matter how hard he tries, or where he searches, the Jedi is nowhere to be seen. He’s gone.

Hours later, when Dream returns to the campsite, it’s abandoned. The tent still stands, but the only thing left inside are a few discarded apples. Logs are still stacked neatly next to it, joined by the pile of unused sticks. Dream’s sword and axe lean against a nearby tree, perfectly parallel to each other.

A scrap of paper is pinned under the hilt of his axe. He tugs it free and unfolds it, bringing it close to his face so he can read the small, printed handwriting.

_Better luck next time._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! in case it's not clear, it's basically some star wars social structures(?) but set in the minecraft universe. any feedback is appreciated!


End file.
